


The Roads We Walk Have Demons Beneath

by Shercock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Could be triggering, Drug Use, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock's Past, Virgin Sherlock, past underage stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shercock/pseuds/Shercock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something from Sherlock's past that he can't seem to escape. He's not sure why he, of all people, is fixated on something so trivial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Roads We Walk Have Demons Beneath

 

“Has he ever had any kind of, umm... girlfriend, boyfriend... a relationship? Ever?” John whispered.

“I don't know,” Mrs. Hudson sighed, shaking her head.

Sherlock's ears perked with interest. The mere mention of the topic causing links in his brain like spiderwebs. _Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Relationship. **Sexual** relations... Sliding of a hand up a leg--his leg. An unexpected touch._ _No- stop._

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tightly and continued playing the strings of his violin, willing the memory away.

It was that time of year again; The “happy holidays”. Sherlock hated it. Not only because of the over abundance of sentiment everywhere and the little obligatory get-togethers, but mainly because the day itself served as a reminder of something he tried so hard to delete.

“How can _we_  not know?” John wondered seriously.

“He’s Sherlock,” she stated. “How will we ever know what goes on inside that funny old head?”

“If you are going to whisper about me I suggest you be a little less _obvious_ about it,” Sherlock quipped, placing his violin down on his chair, heading towards his bedroom.

“Where are you going?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t bother replying. Even someone as ordinary as John could deduce that his bedroom was his destination as Sherlock slammed the door behind him.

Placing himself down on the edge of his bed, Sherlock hung his head and sighed deeply. He was plagued by his own mind and it felt like a betrayal--that his own mind would force him to relive it over and over again, whilst never letting him understand what it was about the event that was so significant that it could effect him in such a way.

_"I dare you to kiss me,” Davin spoke, boldly._

_Shyly,_ _Sherlock leaned forward and pecked Davin on the lips._

_“That wasn’t a kiss,” he declared. “I meant a real kiss.”  
_

_Sherlock wasn’t sure what a “real” kiss was. But nonetheless he tried again; he didn’t want to look like some stupid kid in front of his cool cousin. So this time he sat next to Davin on the bed and awkwardly touched lips with the other boy, letting it linger for a second._

_As he went to pull away he felt his cousins hand wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him in hungrily as he deepened the kiss. Suddenly, Sherlock felt something thick and wet in his mouth. His eyes darted open in surprise. Davin had stuck his tongue inside Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock was momentarily horrified at the fact. How disgusting, he thought. Surely this wasn’t what was meant by a “real kiss”? Was this normal, did people really do this?_

_But then he found himself beginning to enjoy the feeling as Davin pushed him down on the bed-_

“No,” Sherlock physically whispered to himself. “Shut up, shut up, _shut up_.” he demanded his mind.

Shaking his head as though that would help dispel the memories, he stood and discarded his dressing gown as he began to get dressed.

***

Sherlock Holmes, the man known for his brilliant understanding of everyone and everything in the blink of an eye, failed to understand that one life event so completely. He often wondered why he still thought about it decades after the fact. He surmised that it was because the other person involved was a familial relation--his cousin by blood. That fact alone left him feeling dirty and...  _wrong_. Or, maybe it was due to him being only eight years old at the time.

He also supposed that it could be linked with the fact that the one event left him besotted with his cousin for the best part of his childhood. Somewhere in his naive mind he had twisted the act and mistaken it for love. After the event, he spent years feeling nauseous around Davin. He couldn’t even eat around him at family gatherings for fear of being sick, and being left alone with him in the same room was a nightmare. His innocence led him to believe that the pains in his stomach and the feelings of nausea he felt around the boy were just that of ‘butterflies’. This tricked him into believing he was in love with Davin. 

It wasn’t until he was older that he began to realize that what he thought he felt wasn’t actually love at all. It was fear, guilt, shame and nervousness, all wrapped up in a lie to protect himself from the truth.

Most of the time Sherlock felt utterly pathetic for letting his mind make such a big deal out of what had happened. He questioned whether he even had the right to feel the way he did. After all, many people suffer a lot worse in their lifetime and they manage to cope; so why did it bother _him_ so much? Maybe he was just being a drama queen, he told himself often. John always told him he was a drama queen.

_***_

Managing to slip out of the flat as though John wasn’t even there to notice, Sherlock headed down the street in search of a particular kind of criminal. Analyzing everyone he passed, making deductions from the smallest of details, it took less than 6 minutes for Sherlock to find what he was looking for.

Holding his hand out straight infront of him in a stopping motion he stepped into the path of a passing cyclist. As the bike came to an abrupt halt the man gawped at Sherlock as if he were crazy.

Before the cyclist even got a chance to voice his outrage Sherlock spoke up.

“Cocaine, please,” he requested, with one of his fake smiles.

“What?” The man blurted, shocked.

Not giving the man time to ask the questions he so clearly had in mind, Sherlock explained for him.

“You are wearing a tracksuit, yet your weight would suggest that you are not a sportsman. You are out on New Years Eve at 10:48pm on a bicycle, an unusual thing to do so I’m guessing you are making a drop-off as it’s unlikely that you are on your way to a social gathering, based off of your attire. The bottom of your pants are tucked into your socks, but one side sticks out more than the other, suggesting that what I require... is in your sock.”

“What the...” the man trailed off, clearly stunned.

"Should I carry on?" Sherlock inquired at the mans silence.

“What are you, a cop?” the cyclist spat.

“No, I assure you I am not the police. Now, do you have what I want or not?”

“How do I know that you’re not a cop?”

“Because if I  _was_ then I would be searching you instead of asking you now wouldn’t I?” Sherlock replied, glaring at him with that look which said ‘oh my god is everyone this stupid?’.

The man seemed to think for a moment, irritating Sherlock further.

If only Mycroft hadn’t put the fear of the consequences of selling drugs to the British governments little brother into every drug dealer he ever had, then getting high would be so much easier.

“I know you have something,” Sherlock stated, quickly growing tired of the mans silence. “Or, you at least hold the knowledge of where I can find some. Now... am I  _wrong_?” he questioned.

“You’re not wrong,” the dealer replied slowly, marveling at the man before him. 

“Good,” Sherlock nodded. “Now, just give me whatever you have,” he added promptly.

Putting his foot up on his bike, the man slipped his hand into his sock as if he were merely pulling it up.

“H”, the man said simply as he smoothly slipped it into Sherlock's hand. “All I got,” he added, as Sherlock discretely looked at the packet in his hand, making sure it was what the man claimed it to be.

Satisfied, Sherlock slipped it into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, pushing it into the dealers hand as he walked away. He knew he had given the man more than it was worth but he didn’t want to stand and discuss prices when he knew Mycroft’s men would soon notice that he’d given them the slip.

***

It wasn’t long before he arrived at one of the bolt holes he escaped to when he was in need of a fix.

Walking up the stairs of the once office building, now drug den, Sherlock looked for one of the quieter rooms. There was a party going on in the building and the loud, god awful excuse for music was making his skin tingle with annoyance. He considered moving to one of his other locations but that was much further away and he was eager to get at the substance in his pocket.

Settling for the quietest room he could find, which held three other people, Sherlock sat down on the wooden floorboards and leaned his back against the wall. He looked around at the other people in the room as he pulled his coat off, discarding it beside him.

The others in the room were all in different stages of getting high. Sherlock deduced that one of them had just awoken from a drug addled nap, whilst another was leaning against the wall smoking a joint. There was no need for deduction of the third, he was passed out cold on the floor with a needle and an empty wrap of foil by his side. They all looked to be homeless.

Pulling up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his veins, and taking off his belt, Sherlock wrapped it around his bicep tightly. Next he reached for his coat and retrieved the heroin, searching then for his trusty needle case within the inside pocket of his coat, which he kept close to his heart for safe keeping. He then began to ready the heroin for consumption.

Fighting the demons in his head, he filled the needle and brought it to the crease of his arm, letting out a groan of release as he stuck the needle into his vein and pushed the delicious poison into his system.

It was some time later before Sherlock awoke, groggy and sweating, lying on the floor next to the wall. As he slowly began to rouse himself he sat up shakily, noting the man who was smoking a joint earlier was now sat in front of him. Sherlock glanced around the room, seeing that the others were gone; leaving him alone with this man that was now looking him up and down.

“You’re that famous detective, Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” he questioned, with hazy eyes, inspecting every inch of Sherlock with his gaze.

“No,” Sherlock croaked, twisting to find a comfortable position on the hard floor. “You are mistaken.”

“No-” the man paused, shaking his finger at Sherlock. “I know you, seen you in the papers.”

Sherlock tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

“So what’s a man like you doing in a place like this, ey?” the man smirked, as though seeing someone as great as Sherlock Holmes in a place like this was satisfying to him.

Sherlock ignored the idiot, trying to mute his presence.

“Come on, spill,” the man goaded, moving closer to Sherlock so that their crossed legs touched at the knees.

At that, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the man before him. He stayed silent, just staring at him as he tried to deduce everything he could.

“I must say...” he started, putting his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “You’re much prettier in person,” he whispered, leaning forward slowly and connecting his lips with Sherlock's.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide at the contact, even though he’d seen it coming. He wasn’t sure what made him do it. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was the longing for a sexual experience to replace his last. But whatever it was, Sherlock didn’t dwell on it as he let the kiss continue.

It was utterly unlike Sherlock to engage in any physical touch that he felt his own shock as he deepened the kiss.

The man then pulled him closer so that Sherlock was straddling his lap.

As the other man kissed him forcefully, Sherlock’s mind began to wander. He wondered if he liked this, concluded that he didn’t. He wondered why he was doing it when he had no interest in it at all. But it was all happening so fast that he didn’t have time to ponder that question as the other man pushed him down on the floor and pinned his wrists above his head. Suddenly, Sherlock felt a rush of something. Fear? Arousal? He couldn’t be sure, but he deduced that it was probably both. And he didn’t like that being pinned down was turning him on, but he went with it anyway, as the man sucked on his neck and kissed his lips as he grinded against him.

Then Sherlock felt his wrists being released as his hand was guided to the mans crotch. The lack of pressure around his wrist made his arousal dissipate.

“Undo them,” the man whispered in between kisses.

Sherlock obeyed and fumbled to find the mans zipper. Once his jeans were undone Sherlock took out his cock and stroked it in his hand. Moaning above him the man began to kiss Sherlock again. As the junkie on top of him became more aroused he tried to pull down Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock stilled in shock. He hadn’t meant for it to go this far.

“Wait,” he snapped, turning his face away in embarrassment. “I... I don’t think we should-”

“Shh, let me make you feel good,” the guy interrupted.

“No."

“Come on, I won't go all the way,” he tried to convince.

Hesitantly Sherlock agreed, letting the man undo his trousers and pull them off, leaving his boxers in place.

Quickly the man guided Sherlock’s hand back towards his cock and began to stroke Sherlock over his underwear.

The man was clearly aroused, panting and hungrily devouring Sherlocks lips.

Sherlock felt his cock begin to stiffen at the stimulation but he was not enjoying this in the slightest. If he was honest with himself he was just very bored.

Hearing the man panting above him, Sherlock suddenly wondered if he should be making noises too. That’s what he’d seen people do in those awful rom-com movies John made him watch sometimes. So he began to breathe heavily, faking arousal. And then he felt the mans hand go under his boxers and Sherlock jolted at the memory of a different hand touching him there.

_"Have you ever jerked yourself off?" Davin asked, leaning over Sherlock on the bed._

_"No..." Sherlock answered, unsure._

_"You should try it, it feels really good," Davin assured him, kissing Sherlock again._

_Sherlock laid there, feeling his heart race as Davin's hand ran up his bare leg and slipped its way underneath his_ _boxer shorts. The minute Sherlock felt his cousins hand on his penis he knew it was wrong and his eyes flashed open and his mind raced. Davin began to stroke Sherlock's cock and that's when Sherlock began to push him away._

_"What's wrong?" Davin asked, backing off._

_"Someone might walk in," Sherlock stuttered._

_"They won't", Davin said as he leaned in to resume their kiss._

_Sherlock felt trapped, but Davin had stopped when Sherlock pushed him away before so that meant there was nothing to worry about. It meant that what had just happened didn't really matter and that it wasn't Davin's fault for the way Sherlock felt now, right?_

_He knew he could just walk out of the room and go downstairs with the others but he felt like he couldn't. So he let Davin continue kissing him because he didn't want to disappoint the other, but he didn't let it go any further than that._

“What’s wrong?” the man asked, pulling back for a second.

“Nothing,” Sherlock lied.

So the man carried on; stroking him, and kissing him and then Sherlock panicked. The hand had left his cock and had settled against his anus. Sherlock felt a finger pushing it’s way in before he even knew what was happening.

How had he let himself get that carried away that he hadn’t even noticed the hand trailing down there. He hadn’t even been enjoying it.

The man sat up a little and pushed Sherlock's legs up for better access, pulled his boxers aside, and then continued pushing a finger in. Sherlock was lost for words. He was frozen. All of a sudden it was like he couldn’t remember the word ‘stop’ anymore. He squirmed and gasped at the intrusion.

_No. No- this hadn’t been what he’d wanted. Hadn’t been what he’d agreed to._

“Stop,” Sherlock spoke, weakly, the word coming back to his drug hazed mind.

A wave of panic washed over him as the man ignored him.

Suddenly he felt very, very _not_ high anymore.

“Stop,” he repeated again and again, pushing at the mans chest.

He gasped in pain as he felt the mans finger leave him quickly.

Thank God, it’s over he thought for a split second before he felt the mans cock against his anus.

His panic increased tenfold and he pushed harder at the mans chest. His arms felt too weak from the heroin to get any real force behind him.

“Stop!” he demanded, panicked, as he felt the man push with his hips--trying to penetrate him.

When the man ignored his voice again Sherlock found himself reaching for the mans cock out of pure instinct.

“Stop or I’ll rip it off,” he threatened as he gripped a hold of the mans penis.

The man backed off, stumbling to the side.

Sherlock bolted upright and gathered his things, hurriedly pulling his pants on as the other man lay sprawled on the floor, apparently too high to care for another try. Sherlock grabbed his coat and flung it on as he made for the door.

***

Stumbling along the streets of London, Sherlock ruffled his hair and straightened out his clothes. He tried to make himself appear as “normal” as possible. He didn’t want John to know about the drugs. John’s disappointed face was most irritating, and not something he wished to deal with right now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think :)


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